


The Overbalanced Wheel

by figuline



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Relationship, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figuline/pseuds/figuline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia Dunham's mind has never obeyed the laws of thermodynamics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Overbalanced Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wasabi_girl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasabi_girl1/gifts).



And this is her, this has to be, because this is who she's always been. This is her. She is part of a uni, part of a team, because they have to be because there is no one else, and sometimes it feels as if the world is crumbling around her, turning to amber, and there's nothing she can do to stop it, but she tries, because it's who she is. Who she's always been. Sometimes she thinks it's all she's ever been, no beginning and no end, Olivia Dunham, saving the world.

 

Suddenly, frighteningly, she is not saving the world, not saving anyone, not even herself, and she can't remember anything, a stretch of blank darkness that shouldn't happen, that's not _for_ her, like she shot at a target and missed, things that should not happen to Olivia Dunham, page one of many. She always thought that if she was going to have a breakdown, it would feel like hitting a target, not missing. Like she'd get caught up in the joy, in the purity of it, over and over again, unable to stop, hands numb with recoil, because she never feels as good as that, never feels as whole, never feels as right. She never does things by halves. 

 

She remembers her mother. She remembers the day her sister dies. She remembers the list of things in her head she shouldn't have to keep, how her brain has flipped and then flipped back again, this is wrong, this is wrong, and she can't remember the colour of her own money, or the names of celebrities, and she thinks The West Wing finished, even though it's on every Wednesday night, like forgotten clockwork. It doesn't matter, in the end, because she is Olivia. She is Olivia, and, as far as she's concerned, she doesn't need to say anything else. She shouldn't need to justify to anyone, least of all herself.

 

She remembers the weight of her gold medal around her neck, the weight of the gun in her hands, how it feels to kill, how it feels to save (too close for comfort) the taste of bad air in her lungs, in the back of her throat, and she remembers the feel of her own body, remembers how to walk, and see, and hear, but she always feels just a little bit off, off centre, like she's been thrown out, and back in, adrenaline up, back down, and she falls backwards into    
_herself_   
, teases Charlie about his shots, fights, and runs, and lives, and does it all over again. This is the best she's ever been. 

 

She dreams, sometimes, dreams about a thing she'll never do, threatening people she'd never shoot, with blurred faces – perfectly clear faces – and she dreams of the looks on faces, on    
_their_   
faces, and she wakes up in a sweat, slowly coming back to herself, breathing hard, eyes open wide, startled by the brush of her own hair, and there's something in her that says yes, yes, tomorrow,    
_now_   
, but she never listens to it.

 

So she works, because if she doesn't, she'll go mad, go crazy, _again_ , and her body will fill with adrenaline, every beat of her heart a thousand seconds, and she finds a pen on the street, half turning to show it to someone who isn't there, who is never there, and she's caught in herself for a second, just one second until someone says something, and she doesn't know who, but she knows there's more concern in that tone than she's heard for a very long time. She's not sure if it's a good thing.

 

It's never over, and she doesn't want it to be, and when she works she never thinks    
_family_   
, and when Lincoln touches her on the shoulder, or Charlie looks at her, worry in his eyes, and she can't help remembering them, remembering the touch, the look, like a burn, like she's been burnt, iron-hot, and it won't go away. Her mind won't let it. She won't let herself forget it. She catches herself wondering if it was always like this, was it always like this or is she topsy-turvy, backwards, memory playing tricks on her, trick of the light, and sometimes she thinks she's the opposite, not mad, but perfectly, perfectly sane. 

 

Even though sometimes she wakes up to think someone's rearranged her room at night, she feels at home, anchored by the work, by the cases, by herself, her gun, the blood in her body saying save them, save them, save them all. She tries, even though the look in Secretary Bishop's eyes doesn't seem quite right, sometimes, when she catches it out of the corner of her own, and his tone seems wrong, just a little off, but she's felt this way for a while. She thinks she felt this way even before her breakdown. She's not sure, but she wants herself to be, so she is.

 

And for a little while she doesn't feel quite right, quite herself, but Lincoln and Charlie stop asking, so she must be fine, and Lincoln's scars fade so quickly that she's sure she's lost track of time, but they're always there, always them, and it's so easy, so so easy. She loves it, the running (always running) her thoughts as jumbled and as clear as they've ever been, her world is simple and fast, and clean, and she doesn't look at the amber or think about the East River Vortex, because this is how it's always been, always the same people, always Charlie, always Lincoln, (always Astrid, who never quite looks at her, and Broyles, who looks at her too much) and they work and they fight, and they save people and they kill things and they kill    
_things_   
, and they run, and run and they go out for drinks, and talk, and she can't help smiling, and laughing, which feels strange but she can't remember why, and – and they – and they –

 

This is how it's always been.


End file.
